Archive of Our Own

Fox had known what he was before he knew his own designation. Property. The Kaminoans did not bother hiding it. Why would they? You did not soften the blow of reality for equipment. Clones were bred, tested, used, and then discarded. It was a fact of life, and as simple as breathing.

The first fact of life that Fox learned was that no matter how well a clone served, he would always belong to someone else. Fox learned this younger than most. Mostly because he listened. Children assumed adults stopped talking when they entered rooms, but Fox learned quickly that natborns rarely noticed clones enough to censor themselves around them.

Natborns saw them as disposable soldiers. Not equals.

So when Cody arrived on Coruscant on shore leave from his first assignment speaking about General Kenobi’s kindness, Fox had stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“He thanked me.”

Fox looked up slowly. Cody sat nearby cleaning armor with a distant, dazed expression.

“He thanked you?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“Serving the Republic.”

Fox blinked once. “…That’s literally your job.”

“I know.”Cody frowned slightly. “He still said it.”

Across the room, Wolffe snorted quietly. “Plo does that too.”

Fox looked between them, suspicious. “Your Jedi thank you.”

Cody shrugged. “Sometimes.”

Fox stared harder. “…Why?”

The silence that followed was deeply uncomfortable. Because neither Cody nor Wolffe knew how to explain kindness to someone who fundamentally distrusted it.

Fox had never met a natborn who wanted something without strings attached. Not once. The Kaminoans had wanted obedience, the Senators wanted victories, the Republic itself only wanted clones useful enough to keep alive. So when other clones spoke about Jedi like protectors, commanders, or even family—Fox remained deeply unconvinced. They had enjoyed their time together regardless. None of them had known it would be the last time they saw each other for three years.

Then he had met Hondo Ohnaka. Which somehow made everything better and worse. Fox had been technically nineteen, only five months into his station on Coruscant. The Coruscant Guard had deployed to assist local security after pirate raids disrupted shipping lanes. Which already irritated Fox because local security had somehow managed to lose three weapons shipments, a senator, and an entire docking platform.

“Impressive incompetence,” Fox muttered.

Stone snorted behind him. “You say that like it surprises you.”

“No, but it disappoints me.”

Then the pirate attack started. Again. Blasterfire erupted across the docks, and civilians scattered screaming. Naturally, local security folded almost instantly. Which left everything to Fox, who immediately began reorganizing evacuation routes because apparently he was the only competent being in the entire sector.

“Seal eastern access! Move civilians into the buildings! Watch the rooftops!”

Fox crouched behind overturned cargo crates while blasterfire scorched overhead. Three Guard troopers held the western corridor. Two more were evacuating civilians below.

About ten seconds later, Fox came to the realization that the local security had lied about pirate numbers. And, unfortunately, the pirates shifted tactics within minutes, in response to Fox’s commands, redirecting attacks exactly where Republic forces were weakest. Which meant their leader wasn’t stupid. Which must be nice for the pirates, Fox noted bitterly. He wishes his boss wasn’t stupid.

“Smart leader,” Fox muttered.

Stone glanced over, “You sound annoyed about that.”

“I am.”

A thermal detonator bounced across the floor. Fox grabbed Stone by the shoulder and hauled him sideways a split second before the explosion tore through the docking platform. Metal screamed, and smoke flooded the corridor. Then there was silence.

Mostly because Fox couldn’t hear. Well, that wasn’t quite true, he thought, relieved, it was just that his ears were ringing horrendously. He certainly would have been deafened if not wearing his bucket. He rose carefully through the smoke, blaster drawn. He couldn’t see Stone, which sent a pang of relief and of terror coursing through him. He was alone.

“Well,” said a cheerful voice from above, “you are significantly more competent than the others.”

Fox looked up immediately to see a pirate sat casually atop a cargo crane railing. The man was armed, and smiling like the tooka who got the cream.

Fox aimed his blaster. The pirate captain gasped dramatically. “Oh no! He has discovered my one weakness.”

“Aim?”

“Rude.”

Fox fired. The pirate vanished behind cover instantly. Okay, so he was fast. Then Fox heard the click behind his head. …the pirate was really fast.

“Now,” the pirate said pleasantly from directly behind him somehow, “normally I would simply shoot you, he paused, “But I find myself intrigued by you.”

Fox did not move. “You’re Hondo Ohnaka.”

“I knew you were smart.”

Fox weighed his options rapidly, and grimaced slightly as he came to the realization that if he fought, his probability of surviving the next five seconds was… not great.

“Congratulations,” Hondo said brightly. “You are being kidnapped.”

Three hours later, Fox sat handcuffed in a cargo hold aboard a pirate cruiser. Which was humiliating mostly because the pirates kept trying to offer him snacks.

“You should eat,” one pirate said nervously.

Fox stared at him. The pirate retreated immediately. The problem was that Fox wasn’t frightened. Annoyed, yes. Planning multiple escape attempts, absolutely. But afraid? No. That unsettled Hondo tremendously.

Hondo leaned back in his chair studying the clone commander carefully. Fox sat across from him with the posture of a man moments away from committing violence.

“You are taking this remarkably well.”

Fox shrugged slightly. “You haven’t killed me.”

“Yet.”

Fox pushed on. “You want something.”

Hondo grinned. “Oh, I really like you.”

Fox ignored that. “You’re planning ransom.”

“Of course.” Hondo spread his arms. “I’m a businessman.”

Fox almost laughed. Almost. Instead he said flatly: “They’re not coming.”

Hondo blinked. “…Excuse me?”

“The Republic won’t pay for me.”

Silence. Hondo frowned slightly. “You are a commander.”

“I’m a clone.”

“A valuable clone.”

Fox met his gaze evenly. “Disposable.”

Hondo lowered his drink slowly. “You believe that.”

Fox looked genuinely confused. “It’s objectively true.”

The pirate captain stared at him for a long moment. Then barked a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “My friend,” Hondo said carefully, “that is deeply concerning.”

Fox said nothing. Because what exactly was there to say? The Republic grew clones to die. Everyone knew that. The only difference was that some people were simply more honest about it.

Hondo leaned forward. “No one is coming for you?”

Fox shrugged as well as he could in his bonds. “Not worth the resources.”

“…What kind of government tells soldiers that?”

Fox answered immediately. “The Republic kind.”

Hondo sat back slowly. And for the first time, Fox saw the pirate genuinely unsettled.

“Well.” A pause. “That is horrifying.”

Fox snorted softly. “You’re a pirate.”

“Yes,” Hondo said indignantly. “But I have standards.” There was another silence. Then: “Join my crew.”

Fox blinked. “…What.”

“You are intelligent, terrifying, and frankly, a damned good commander.”Hondo pointed excitedly. “You’d fit right in!”

Fox stared. “You’re recruiting me.”

“Yes!”

“I’m your hostage.”

Hondo waved his hand through the air as if clearing smoke. “Temporary details.”

Fox should have rejected the idea immediately. He should have attempted escape, should have remained loyal to the GAR. Instead, something ugly and exhausted in him whispered Would the GAR even notice if you disappeared? The answer hurt. Because he already knew it.

Fox spent the next two days internally fighting himself while technically still kidnapped. The pirates were chaotic, criminal, undisciplined, and somehow significantly more functional than anyone on Coruscant.

Nobody called clones property aboard Hondo’s ship. Nobody treated him like equipment. Mostly they treated him like a highly dangerous tooka someone had accidentally allowed near weapons. Which, admittedly, felt more accurate.

Then Hondo handed him a blaster rifle during a boarding operation with no hesitation.

“You’re arming me,” Fox observed.

“Yep.”

“You barely know me.”

“You hate authority and are a very good shot,” Hondo shrugged, “I trust your priorities, and request your help.”

That was the first genuinely free choice anyone had ever given him. And Fox hated how much it mattered. So eventually—reluctantly, suspiciously, and with profound emotional constipation—Fox stayed.

It did not take Hondo long at all to discover that Fox was terrifying outside Republic restrictions. Partly because Fox understood military logistics and could read people frighteningly well. And partly because he had spent his entire life training to essentially be a catch all soldier.

Within three months he had reorganized Hondo’s supply chains, exposed two traitors, improved ship security, and blackmailed a trade official so efficiently Hondo nearly cried from pride.

“You are wasted on legality,” Hondo had informed him emotionally.

“That’s concerning.”

“It’s complimentary!”

Fox also learned something deeply unfortunate aboard the pirate ship: he liked freedom. He liked having a choice. It made returning to Republic space increasingly difficult emotionally. Especially once he started reconnecting with his Mandalorian roots.

It was actually Hondo, bizarrely enough, who first pushed Fox toward his own heritage. He hadn’t done it intentionally, Fox was pretty sure, mostly just while trying to flatter him.

“You Mandalorians are all terrifying.”

Fox had frowned immediately. “I’m a clone.”

“Yes.” Hondo blinked. “A clone of a Mandalorian.”

“But we’re not considered Mandalorian. They don’t claim us,” Fox explained.

Hondo looked genuinely disgusted. “No, no, no,” he waved emphatically, “You are a son of Jango Fett.” A wild grin spread across his face, “That means you are Mandalorian, my friend!”

Fox had heard the word before. Mandalorian. But Kamino discouraged cultural attachment aggressively. Identity complicated obedience. Still, the idea lodged somewhere uncomfortable inside him. Fox resisted for a while anyways. Because belonging to something meant vulnerability, and Fox still trusted almost nobody.

And yet, the old Mandalorian data archive Hondo gave him, citing “you should know where you came from,” became something dangerously personal. Aliit, buir, vod. Words for belonging. For family. For an identity beyond ownership. Fox read everything obsessively when on watch, when he could be sure he was alone.

Then one evening Hondo walked into the cockpit and found Fox muttering pronunciation exercises under his breath.

“Ahhh,” Hondo said smugly. “There is the Mandalorian.”

Fox immediately looked murderous. “I’m a clone.”

“Yes.” Hondo grinned, “But you are also a Mandalorian.”

Fox hated how much he wanted that to mean something.

YEAR ONE

For the first few months of year one, Fox woke up angry. Not loud angry. Fox was never loud unless something had gone catastrophically wrong. No, this was the quieter kind; of suspicious silences, sharpened glares, sleeping with weapons within reach, and the constant expectation that freedom would eventually reveal itself as another cage.

Hondo found this hilarious.

“You know,” Hondo remarked one evening, “most people become less threatening after being rescued.”

Fox looked up from the blaster he was cleaning. “You kidnapped me.”

“Yes.” Hondo pointed triumphantly. “And now you live here voluntarily. That is friendship.”

Small things started changing first. Sleeping without his shell on, speaking without military formality, choosing his own meals, and not cutting his hair.

Fox did not cut his hair because he wanted longer hair, at least at first. He stopped cutting it because nobody ordered him to anymore. The realization hit him three months after joining Hondo’s crew. He stood in the refresher staring at his reflection while absentmindedly reaching for clippers. Then he froze. There were no inspections here. No regulations. In fact, Fox realized, he’s pretty sure no one would care if he dyed his hair bright green, simply because it wasn’t their kriffing business. That realization felt enormous.

“You are staring at yourself very dramatically,” Hondo observed from the doorway.

Fox immediately scowled, spinning around. “You don’t knock?”

“My friend, this is a pirate ship. Privacy is more of a suggestion.”

Fox ignored him and looked back at the mirror. The dark curls at the base of his skull had started growing out unevenly, far messier than regulations allowed. He looked softer somehow.

Hondo leaned against the doorway. “You know, for a man who escaped military slavery, you are strangely committed to looking like military slavery.”

Fox’s expression flattened. “That’s not funny.”

“No,” Hondo agreed surprisingly gently. “It isn’t.”

That was another thing about Hondo. He might’ve joked constantly, but he understood exactly when not to.

Fox stared at himself another moment. Then quietly said, “I don’t know what else to look like.”

Hondo crossed his arms, “Well,” he said as a grin spread slowly across his face, “That sounds like a wonderful opportunity for poor decision-making.”

Fox narrowed his eyes immediately. “…No.”

Two days later Hondo dragged him into a black-market tattoo parlor anyway.

“I hate you.”

“You say this often for someone who voluntarily sticks around.”

Fox glared murderously while the tattoo artist eyed his arms critically.

“You want traditional Mando markings?” the artist asked, eyeing him. And Fox hesitated, because suddenly this wasn’t funny anymore. Mandalorian tattoos weren’t decoration. They meant things. History. Survival. Identity. Things Fox was still learning he was allowed to have.

The artist squinted his many, many eyes and tilted his head. “First ink?” Fox nodded once shakily, and the artist’s expression softened immediately. “Ah. We can start simple,” he offered, and Fox nodded again.

Simple did not exactly stay simple. Simple became several creatures, Mando’a script wrapping around muscle, and scar tissue and the mark of the Coruscant Guard. By the end of the first session, Fox’s forearm carried: Ni cuy' su oyayc, a gar cuyir dar. Ni partaylir gar, bid gar cuyir darasuum.

I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.

Fox stared at the words silently for a long time afterward.

“For your brothers?” the artist asked quietly.

Fox swallowed once. “…Kinda.” Because while, every day without contacting his brothers felt like betrayal, it was also an acknowledgment of his past self.

Fox tried. Force, he tried. But by the time he was physically able to get back in contact with Coruscant, Republic records already listed him as presumed killed in action. The Coruscant Guard had held a memorial. Hondo found that out through highly specific intelligence channels months later. He almost didn’t tell Fox. Almost.

“They honored you,” Hondo said carefully one evening.

Fox looked up sharply. “…Who?”

Hondo handed over a holopad. On the screen was a grainy pic, obviously screenshotted off of a camera, of the Coruscant Guard barracks. Rows of clone troopers standing rigidly at attention. And there, in front row center, stood Cody. Fox stopped breathing.

Cody looked shattered. Wolffe stood beside him rigid with grief. Bly’s expression was hollow. Ponds looked furious in the way he always was when he couldn’t fix something. And behind them was Stone, Thorn, and Thire. All of his vod.

A little bit of zooming in and squinted revealed that the obviously handcrafted memorial plaque read:
COMMANDER FOX
NU KYR’ADYC, SHI TAAB’ECHAAJ’LA
LOST IN SERVICE TO THE REPUBLIC

Fox sat down abruptly. “…Oh,” he said hollowly.

Hondo quietly left the room after that. Fox did not sleep that night. Or the next. Because he imagined Cody blaming himself. Of course he would. Cody always tried to carry everyone. And Fox—Fox was his twin.

They had shared everything on Kamino. Training. Punishments. Survival. Fox knew Cody’s breathing patterns better than his own. And now Cody thought he was dead.

The worst part was that Fox couldn’t contact him to let him know that he wasn’t dead. Not while the Republic monitored clone channels. Not while Fox was on Hondo’s ship. Because if the Republic discovered Cody, or any clone for that matter, was in contact with a pirate, they were at risk of being decommissioned. So Fox carried the guilt instead. Every day.

The tattoos spread slowly after that. A sleeve across his right arm first. Then his shoulder. Then across his ribs. Black ink winding around scars and muscle, reclaiming himself. Some markings honored battles survived. Some honored brothers lost. Some were simply beautiful because Fox had spent his entire life denied beauty that belonged to him personally.

And eventually, he pierced his ear. Hondo nearly cried from excitement.

“You are becoming interesting aesthetically.”

Fox rolled his eyes. “It’s one earring.”

“It is symbolic rebellion.”

“It’s metal.”

“It is fashionable symbolic rebellion.”

It was a small silver hoop in his left ear, but it was his.

YEAR TWO

By year two, Fox no longer looked like a clone commander. His hair curled past his jaw now, dark and thick and perpetually windswept. Sometimes he braided it back loosely and sometimes he left it entirely untamed.

The tattoos covered most of his right arm completely, black ink disappearing beneath sleeveless shirts and armor straps. The silver earring caught light when he turned his head.

He had also learned he enjoyed music. That one had stunned him a lot. Kamino had been too sterile for music beyond training rhythms, and he hadn’t been on Coruscant long enough to have downtime to listen to it. But pirate ships sang constantly. And one night Fox found himself humming in Mando’a while cleaning weapons. Once he realized, he stopped immediately and stared at the wall for ten full seconds. “…Well that’s new.”

And perhaps strangest of all—Fox had started laughing occasionally. Rarely, but genuinely. Mostly because of Hondo.

“You care for me deeply,” Hondo informed him one evening.

Fox didn’t look up from cleaning his blaster. “I tolerate you.”

“You bought me medicine when I was sick.”

“You were becoming annoying and I was the closest member of the crew to the market.”

“You held my hand.”

“Lie.”

“I was dying!”

“You had a fever.”

The pirates nearby snorted quietly. Fox belonged aboard the ship now, no one could deny that. The crew called him vod half-jokingly sometimes. Brother.

The first time someone said it casually, Fox went completely still.

“You okay?” the pirate asked carefully.

Fox nodded too fast. “…Fine.” He was absolutely not fine. Because somewhere deep down a part of him still believed he didn’t deserve family outside the brothers he’d abandoned.

YEAR THREE

The reunion happened entirely by accident. Which was fitting.

The pirate deal had already collapsed. Blasterfire erupted across the docking platforms while Hondo shouted insults at someone in Huttese. Fox vaulted over cargo crates smoothly, cursing Hondo out in Mando’a, and yet also completely used to this by now.

Then he heard it. Clone comm chatter. Close.

Fox froze as he recognized the voice that he had grown up with.

“Move, move, MOVE!!”

Cody. Fox’s entire body went rigid. No. No, it was impossible, how could they be here?! What were the chances?!

Then he heard another voice and Fox stopped breathing.

“Target moving east!”

Rex.

Three years of absence crashed into him all at once. And then Cody turned the corner, and the world went into slow motion. Because Cody looked up and saw a long-haired man with tattooed arms, a silver earring, Mandalorian armor pieces strapped over pirate gear… with Fox’s face.

The world stopped. If his bucket had been off, Fox was sure Cody would’ve been as white in the face as Fox was.

“...Fox?” The word came out broken and unsteady. Fox forgot how to respond in every language he knew instantly. Because Cody looked devastated. Hopeful. Furious. Relieved. All at once.

Behind him, Rex froze completely. Then Wolffe. Then Bly. Fox distantly wondered what could be so important on this planet for all of them to be here. It didn’t really matter. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Fox swallowed hard. “…Hi.”

Cody crossed the distance in seconds and hit him hard enough to nearly knock him backward. And to Fox’s surprise, it wasn’t to punch him. He was swept up in an embrace that screamed of grief.

“You di’kut,” Cody choked out. Idiot. Fox grabbed him back just as fiercely. And for the first time in three years, finally let himself feel how much he had missed them too.

Around them, the others still looked stunned. Wolffe stared openly at the tattoos. The hair. The earring. “…What happened to you?”

Fox looked over Cody’s shoulder, back at his brothers. And quietly, with something almost peaceful in his voice, he answered: “…I got free.”

For a long moment, nobody moved. The spaceport still burned around them, and blasterfire still echoed somewhere distant. Hondo was probably robbing someone during the five seconds Fox didn’t have his eye on him. But none of the clones cared. Because Fox was alive.

Cody still had both hands locked onto his shoulders like he thought Fox might vanish again if he let go. Rex looked halfway between furious and emotional collapse. Wolffe’s visible eye was terrifyingly bright. Bly just stared.

“You’re alive,” Rex said finally.

Fox blinked once. “…That appears to be the case.”

Rex made a strangled noise. “That’s what you say?!”

Fox frowned slightly. “I’m not sure what response you were expecting.”

Wolffe stepped forward abruptly. “You disappeared for three years.”

“I know.”

“We thought you were dead!”

“I know.”

“We held a funeral Fox!”

Fox went still as the silence stretched. “…I know.”

Cody’s grip tightened immediately. “What do you mean you know?”

Fox hesitated. Which told Cody everything instantly.

“You saw it.”

“A picture,” he admitted, looking away. And oh. Oh, that hurt.

Bly exhaled shakily. “Why didn’t you contact us?” he asked, voice breaking.

Fox closed his eyes briefly. Because there was no answer that didn’t sound terrible.

“I couldn’t risk it.”

“That’s osik and you know it,” Wolffe snapped instantly.

Fox’s head jerked toward him. “I couldn’t put you in danger! I’m a chakaaryc, for Force’s sake! You could be killed for being in contact with me!”

“And you thought we’d care more about that than whether you were alive?!”

Fox reared back, the words like a physical strike. Because that was the thing Fox still hadn’t fully understood. To him, survival had always been practical. Strategic. You disappeared if necessary. You sacrificed things if necessary. Including yourself.

But his vode had mourned him. Not as a soldier lost. Not as an asset destroyed. As batchmates. As family.

Cody looked furious now in the specific exhausted way only he had ever managed. “You idiot.”

Fox almost laughed weakly. “That seems to be everyone’s opinion lately.”

“You left us thinking we failed you.”

“I never blamed you,” Fox said immediately.

Cody looked almost angry enough to hit him. “That’s not the point!”

The force of it echoed across the dock. Any nearby pirates were now pretending very hard not to watch the emotional implosion happening beside the cargo crates.

Rex rubbed both hands down his face. “You vanished during a mission and nobody could find a body.”

Wolffe crossed his arms tightly. “The Guard tore half that sector apart looking.”

“Your commanders nearly got arrested,” Bly added.

Fox stared at them, speechless. He swallowed hard. “…I’m sorry.” The words came rough.

Cody stared at him for another long moment. Then finally exhaled shakily and pulled him into another crushing embrace, albeit a bit gentler than the previous.

“Di’kut,” Cody muttered again against his shoulder. Fox laughed helplessly into the fabric of Cody’s shoulder plate. Force, he had missed him.

Behind them, Hondo loudly whispered to a pirate: “I should charge money for emotional reunions.”

Fox pulled back just enough to glare at him. “You kidnapped me. Shut up.”

“And look how well it turned out!”

Rex finally stepped closer, still staring openly at Fox like he couldn’t quite process him. “You look…” He gestured vaguely. “…Different.”

Fox glanced down automatically at the tattoos curling down his arm, the loose pirate gear, the silver hoop glinting in his ear, the hair brushing his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

Wolffe snorted. “You look like a bounty hunter.”

“Hey!” Hondo interrupted immediately. “He looks stylish.”

Bly pointed suddenly. “You pierced your ear.”

Fox blinked. “…That’s what you’re focused on?”

“You had regulation cuts branded into your soul on Kamino and now you look like you stab rich people for a living.”

“I kind of do,” Fox admitted.

Cody’s eyes dropped slowly toward the tattoo sleeve disappearing beneath Fox’s rolled sleeves. His expression shifted immediately, going softer.

“Mando’a?”

Fox hesitated, then nodded once. Carefully, Cody reached for his arm. Fox let him take it. Cody traced the line of script along his forearm silently, reading.

Ni cuy'su oyayc, a gar cuyir…

Cody stopped breathing for a second. Because he understood exactly who Fox had gotten that tattoo for.

“Vod…” he whispered.

Fox looked away immediately. “I wanted to contact you immediately.” The confession slipped out before he could stop it. Fox rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. “By the time I was back in comms range, the Republic had already declared me dead.” A bitter laugh.

“And me?” Rex asked quietly, as if he couldn’t quite believe he would be included.

Fox’s jaw tightened. “I wanted to contact you all every day. But if we were caught…” He looked down. “I couldn’t risk losing anyone.”

Nobody spoke for a while after that. Because unfortunately that sounded exactly like Fox. Taking impossible responsibility onto himself until it crushed him.

Then Wolffe stepped forward suddenly and punched him in the arm hard. Fox hissed in pain, jerking back. “What the kriff was that for?!”

“That was for being an overdramatic martyr.”

Another punch from Rex immediately after. “That one’s from me.”

Bly cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. “Oh good, are we hitting him now?”

Fox actually laughed then, and the sound was so bright that all of them froze. Because they realized at the same time that Fox had changed. Not fundamentally. He was still sharp-edged and frighteningly observant and emotionally repressed in deeply concerning ways. But he was lighter somehow.

Cody noticed it most clearly. The way Fox carried himself now. There was no more rigid military precision. Just Fox.

Hondo clapped suddenly. “Well! This has been beautiful and emotionally educational.” Everyone turned toward him, and the pirate grinned broadly. “Now unfortunately we are still in the middle of a gunfight.” Almost on cue, an explosion rocked the far end of the docking bay.

Fox sighed deeply. “…Right.”

Then immediately switched tones: “Nikto, eastern flank’s collapsing. Melch, take the guys and pin ‘em near the fuel line. Jawa-”

Wolffe blinked. “You already got all that?”

Fox stared. “…Obviously.”

The others exchanged looks. Some things, apparently, never changed. Then Cody stopped him before he could move away again. Just for a second.

“…You’re staying this time, right?” Cody asked softly, afraid of the answer.

Fox looked between his brothers. At the grief still lingering behind their eyes. At the relief he was alive. At the furious affection. Then toward Hondo’s crew behind him. His strange, chaotic second family. And for the first time in his life, Fox realized he didn’t have to choose only one.

So he answered honestly. “Yeah, vod.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be in touch.”

YEAR FOUR

By year four, Fox had finally accepted three deeply unfortunate truths.

First: Hondo Ohnaka was, against all odds, genuinely his friend. Second: his sleep schedule would never be normal again. And third: his vod were absolutely never going to stop trying to drag him into Jedi-related problems.

“Absolutely not.” Fox didn’t even look up at the holo.

On the screen, Cody sighed. “We’re just asking you to meet them.”

“No.”

“Fox-”

“I became a pirate specifically to avoid Republic authority figures.”

Rex, also in the call, snorted into his drink. “You became a pirate because Hondo kidnapped you.”

“That’s slander.”

“It’s literally what happened.”

Hondo pointed triumphantly from the other side of the room. “He’s not wrong!” Fox ignored him expertly, his skill honed over years.

The pirate ship’s common room buzzed around him, music drifting from old speakers, pirates arguing over sabacc, and their mechanics yelling somewhere below deck.

Fox sat sprawled sideways in his chair with his boots hooked around another seat, dark curls tied back messily. The tattoos winding down both arms now disappeared beneath fingerless gloves and rolled sleeves. The silver hoop in his ear glinted when he turned his head.

Cody still occasionally stared at him like this was surreal. Because this version of Fox—relaxed, comfortable, alive—had never existed on Kamino, and had never gotten the chance to on Coruscant.

“I trust them,” Cody said finally.

Fox’s eyes flicked upward immediately. “That’s emotional manipulation.”

“It’s true.”

Silence stretched. It was true. Fox had never really known the Jedi personally. Not beyond a few patrols at the Temple and distant Republic briefings before he vanished. But he knew his brothers. And his vode trusted their Jedi with frightening sincerity.

Cody talked about Obi-Wan like as something akin to a lover. Wolffe spoke about Plo Koon with quiet loyalty bordering on devotion. Bly trusted General Secura enough to follow her into hell smiling. And Rex… well. Rex talked about Skywalker and Tano with all the exhausted fondness of a man constantly surviving catastrophes with emotionally unstable siblings.

Fox trusted his brothers’ judgment more than he trusted almost anything. Which made this conversation deeply inconvenient. Still—

“Absolutely not,” Fox repeated.

Rex groaned loudly. “Fox.”

“No.”

“You don’t even have to stay long.”

“No.”

“Just dinner.”

“No.”

Hondo looked delighted. “I’ve been telling him he needs to get out more!” he called.

Fox pointed accusingly. “You are supposed to support me.”

“I am! …supporting your social growth!”

“Hondo.”

The problem was that the Jedi already knew about him now. Fox had fought that for months. Partly because he understood the Republic better than any of his vod did. A clone commander surviving as a pirate wouldn’t be something the Senate ignored quietly. And if Coruscant found out Cody, Rex, Wolffe, and Bly had maintained contact with him? At best: prison. At worst: decommissioning. Fox would rather disappear forever than risk that.

“You’re overthinking it,” Wolffe said one evening.

Fox looked offended. “I am thinking the correct amount.”

“You’ve been saying no for eight months.”

“Yes.”

“And somehow the Jedi still know you exist.”

Fox glared. “That was betrayal.”

“It was selective information sharing.”

“Betrayal!”

Truthfully, though? The Jedi’s reaction had not gone how Fox expected. There had been no arrest attempts, or warrants, nor demands he return to his duty. It had mostly just been quiet curiosity and concern. Which was honestly more unsettling.

The first message had came from Plo Koon, because Wolffe was a kriffing traitor. It had read: ‘Your brother speaks of you often. I am glad you survived.’ Fox had stared at the transmission for nearly twenty minutes afterward.

Then Obi-Wan apparently learned about him and immediately sent: Cody threatened bodily harm if I attempted to arrest you. I thought you should know. To which Fox laughed so hard at, that he nearly fell out of his chair.

Then there was Skywalker, whom had apparently heard “clone commander turned pirate” and reacted with immediate enthusiasm.

Rex had warned him beforehand. “He’s going to like you too much.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I promise you, I am not.”

The first message Fox ever received from Anakin Skywalker was: Hondo says you blew up a banking frigate because someone insulted your tattoos. Is that true?

Fox stared blankly. Then slowly looked toward Hondo across the room.

“Hondo.”

The pirate didn’t even glance up from his drink. “Yes?”

“Why are you telling Jedi about my crimes.”

“Networking.”

Fox dropped his head into his hands. Despite himself—despite all instincts screaming otherwise—the edges of his distrust had begun softening slightly around the Jedi. Partly because his vode smiled differently when they talked about them. And partly because Fox knew enough about survival to recognize genuine trust when he saw it.

Still, he avoided meeting them personally. That line felt dangerous somehow. Too close to the Republic, and too close to becoming visible again.

YEAR FIVE

By year five, Fox had accidentally become infamous. This fact was deeply irritating to him.

“You are smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

Fox looked up from the bounty puck in his hand with an exhausted expression. Across from him, Hondo grinned like a delighted menace. Projected in glowing red between them was the newest Republic Most Wanted bulletin.

WANTED:
THE RED WRAITH
Armed piracy, grand theft starship, obstruction of Republic investigations, destruction of military property, aiding criminal syndicates, aiding anti-slavery operations, assaulting senators, unlawful weapons trafficking—

Fox stopped reading there. “…I assaulted one senator.”

“You threw him through a window.”

“He was corrupt.”

“Still technically a crime.”

Fox rubbed a hand over his face. The holoprojection rotated slowly above the table. He felt a strange sensation of pride in his chest that they had given him a name. He wasn’t a clone commander anymore. Nor was he CC-1010 or Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard.

The Republic had no idea Commander Fox survived. Because the man in the bounty image looked nothing like him anymore. Long dark curls fell past his shoulders now, usually braided partially back with leather cords with beads and bits of beskar worked into the strands. The tattoo sleeves wrapped completely across both arms and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirts now, black ink crawling over scar tissue and normal skin alike.

His armor had evolved into some sort of odd hybrid with mismatched beskar plates, scavenged Guard-red detailing from his old shell, several highly illegal weapon modifications, Mandalorian-inspired combat straps/belt, and a kama lined in dark fabric. The silver hoop in his ear had multiplied at some point. Now there were three.

And perhaps most importantly, he moved differently. He no longer walked in lockstep, instead moving as freely and fluidly as a river.

The Republic only saw a highly intelligent pirate tactician known for impossible escapes and deeply concerning levels of strategic planning. Not Commander Fox, KIA five years ago.

“You know what my favorite part is?” Hondo asked cheerfully.

Fox already regretted asking. “What?”

Hondo enlarged the hologram and gestured dramatically. And Fox saw the problem. That being the number beside the bounty.

Fox looked at it. Looked again. Then slowly turned toward Hondo.

“…That’s your bounty.”

“Yes.”

“…Why is mine the same as yours?”

Hondo put a hand over his heart. “They grow up so fast.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Fox deadpanned.

“You have such a way with words.”

The nickname had started six months earlier. The Red Wraith. Fox hated it immediately. Which seemed to guarantee it spread everywhere.

Because apparently appearing out of nowhere during slave extractions, hijacking Republic supply chains, vanishing before reinforcements arrived, and leaving corrupt officials zip-tied to statues with financial crimes exposed publicly—created a certain reputation.

Especially because almost nobody got a clear look at him. The long hair obscured his features. The tattoos distracted attention. The armor and altered voice modulator changed the rest. And when he moved, fast,
precise, and violent, people remembered the presence of him more than his face.

Stories spread, almost all of which were naturally exaggerated.

“They think you bit a Trandoshan bounty hunter.”

Fox looked up from cleaning his blaster. “I did that one actually.”

Hondo blinked. “…Oh.”

Another rumor claimed the Red Wraith could infiltrate entire Republic cruisers unnoticed. This one was also true. Fox still knew Coruscant Guard security protocols better than anyone alive.

“You stole an entire senator.”

“He was an asshole.”

“You kidnapped him from a Republic gala.”

Fox shrugged. “Seems like a skill issue on his part.”

The terrifying part? Fox genuinely did not realize how widespread his infamy had become. Because to him, this was nothing. He was still protecting his vode, protecting his crew, protecting people the Republic ignored. Nothing had changed for him except for the methods. Meanwhile, the galaxy at large viewed the Red Wraith like some kind of half-mythological criminal menace.

The relationship between Fox and Hondo also became… complicated. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but it wasn’t entirely platonic either. It was something uniquely theirs.

Fox occupied Hondo’s personal quarters more often than his own now. Mostly because they stayed awake talking until absurd hours about a variety of things. The list of things included but was not limited to: Republic corruption, Mandalorian history, pirate politics, clone rights, ridiculous heist ideas, and whether Fox could realistically steal a Venator. (The answer was apparently yes.)

Sometimes Hondo draped himself dramatically across Fox’s shoulders while talking. Sometimes Fox braided beads into Hondo’s hair absentmindedly while reviewing tactical maps. Sometimes they flirted outrageously for hours and then immediately started arguing. Nobody aboard ship understood what they were. Including them.

“You are in love,” someone had informed Hondo once.

“We are emotionally complicated business partners,” Hondo corrected.

Fox looked up from across the room. “We’re not even exclusive.” Everyone stared at him. Fox blinked. “…What? It’s true.”

And it was. Still—there were moments. Hondo carefully helping rewrap Fox’s hands after a bad bar fight. Or Fox wordlessly standing between Hondo and danger every single time without hesitation. Or the fact that Hondo knew exactly which songs calmed Fox down after nightmares.

One evening, after a particularly brutal mission, Hondo found Fox sitting atop the ship’s hull staring at hyperspace. Some old Mandalorian song drifted softly from an old portable speaker beside him.

Fox looked tired. Hondo settled beside him quietly, for once not talking immediately.

After several minutes, Fox finally spoke. “…Do you think they’d still recognize me?”

Hondo glanced sideways. “Your Commanders?”

Fox nodded. The pirate snorted softly. “My dear Fox, they recognized you before you recognized yourself.”

Fox went very still after that. Below them, somewhere deeper in the ship, pirates argued loudly over sabacc. The music continued softly between them. They did not speak again.

Year five was also the year they discovered the chips.

The raid went horribly. Which, in Hondo’s defense, narrowed it down very little. The original plan had been simple: steal coaxium, avoid any patrols, leave before the local crime syndicates noticed. Unfortunately, the local crime syndicate noticed immediately. Then a Republic patrol arrived. Then somebody shot a fuel line. And then everything became fire.

Fox loved plans. This was not a plan anymore. This was survival.

“MOVE!”

Fox shoved one pirate bodily behind cover as blasterfire ripped through the platform.

The pirate blinked. “…You saved me.”

“Di’kut, we are way past this.”

“Yes, but-“

A thermal detonator bounced nearby. Fox grabbed him again. “RUN.”

The explosion hit hard enough to crack the platform beneath them and metal screamed. Smoke flooded the air. Fox staggered sideways, half deafened—and then something slammed into the side of his helmet. Hard.

Pain exploded white-hot through his skull. The world tilted violently. Fox hit the floor. Voices blurred around him. The blasterfire seemed distant now. People were yelling. Fox could hear Hondo swearing creatively in at least three languages. Then darkness swallowed everything whole.

Several hours later, Fox woke up restrained. Which was fair, honestly. He was notorious for moving around in his sleep. Bright lights burned overhead. The medbay smelled like bacta, antiseptic, and a decent amount of panic.

“…Why am I tied down?”

Their medic immediately pointed at him. “He’s awake!”

“That does not answer my question.”

Fox tried sitting up, and immediate agony detonated behind his eyes. “…Oh.”

“Yeah,” the medic said weakly. “Don’t do that.”

Hondo appeared beside the bed looking unusually alarmed, which was deeply concerning.

“You nearly died, my friend.”

Fox frowned. “That’s all that bothering you?”

“That is not the correct response,” Hondo sighed.

Fox squinted at him. “…seriously, what’s wrong?”

The medic and Hondo exchanged a glance. That was bad. Fox immediately went still. “What happened.”

Hondo rubbed his face. “Well.” A pause. “You required surgery.” Another pause. “And we found something.” Fox waited. “…In your head.”

Fox blinked once. “What.”

The medic looked deeply uncomfortable now. “There’s a chip implanted near your brain stem.”

Fox stared at them. Then laughed once, short and disbelieving. “No there isn’t.”

“There absolutely is.”

“That’s insane.”

“Yes,” Hondo agreed immediately. “That is what concerns us.”

Fox sat there motionless. Trying to process the sentence. A chip. In his head.

“No,” he said again quieter this time. “The Kaminoans would never—” Then he stopped speaking. Because actually? They absolutely would. The realization settled slowly and horribly into place. Fox suddenly felt sick.

The medic pulled up a scan and pointed. “There.” A tiny shape was lit up on the screen near the base of his skull. Fox stared at it for a very long time.

“I want it out.” The words came immediately, panicked.

Hondo exchanged another glance with the medic. “…About that.” Fox’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“The placement is difficult,” the medic admitted. “One wrong move and you die.”

Fox looked back at the scan. At the thing inside his head. Something installed without his knowledge and without his permission. For the first time in years, Fox was afraid.

“Get it out.”

The medic hesitated. “Are you sure?”

Fox looked at Hondo dead in the eyes, and said with a voice like ice, “Get. It. Out.”

Hondo turned to the medic. “You heard him.”

The night he woke up from the surgery, Fox did not sleep. Or the next. The realization that if he had a chip, then every clone probably did, refused to let him sleep.

Hondo found him in the cockpit staring silently at the tiny metal chip floating in a sterile container beside him. The thing was small enough to fit on a fingertip. And it had been inside him.

“You’re brooding.”

Fox didn’t look away. “There was something in my head.”

“Yes.”

“I hate that you’re calm about this.”

Hondo shrugged. “I know Kaminoans. Ethical boundaries are not really their thing.”

Fox rubbed his eyes tiredly. “They put something inside every clone.” Hondo stayed silent, waiting for Fox to gather his thoughts. “…We don’t even know why,” Fox finally whispered. That was the part that terrified him most.

Because if there was one thing Fox understood, it was systems. And nobody implants military-wide brain modifications for harmless reasons. So he started digging. Pirate slicers. Black market medics. Stolen Kaminoan files. Fox turned his entire operation toward one obsessive goal: Find out what the chips were for.

And eventually he found enough pieces to become even more horrified than he thought physically possible. Orders. At least a hundred, all that they could not fight or deny. Then came the one that made Fox’s blood run cold: Order 66: any and all Jedi leadership must be executed for treason against the Republic. Fox reread it three times. Someone had installed a kill switch into an entire army.

“Hondo.”

The pirate looked up sleepily. Fox’s voice had gone terrifyingly calm. “We need to warn the Jedi.”

“What?”

“I need a list of all the Jetti we can reach.”

Then he immediately called Cody.

Cody’s hologram flickered to life. Fox stared at his brother silently for several seconds.

“…You look terrible,” Cody observed.

“Kamino put chips in our heads.”

Cody blinked. “…What?”

“Look.” Fox transmitted the scans and Cody went frighteningly still.

Behind him, Obi-Wan appeared partially into frame, concerned immediately. “Commander?”Neither clone answered.

Then Cody whispered: “Fox’ika…”

Fox closed his eyes briefly. “I know. We have to act fast. Call everyone. Don’t let anyone but the Jetti and vode know.”

Cody nodded, and hung up.

Year five was also the year Fox and Anakin met for the first time.

The message from Rex had concerned him immediately.

Skywalker’s acting strange.

Won’t say why.
But he keeps asking questions about behavioral conditioning and emotional manipulation.

Fox stared at the transmission for a long moment. Then slowly lowered the datapad. Across the room, Hondo looked up from counting stolen credits. “That face usually means violence.”

Fox was already standing. “Potentially. Cyar’ika, how fast can you get me to Coruscant?”

Because there were only a handful of reasons Anakin Skywalker would start asking clones questions about conditioning. And none of them were good.

Fox arrived on Coruscant in disguise. Obviously. Nobody looking at him now would recognize Commander Fox anyway. Not unless they already knew.

The very little the Republic remembered was cropped hair, rigid posture, pristine armor, and expressionless obedience; like every other clone. They most certainly would not have expected the man with dark curls braided down his back, tattoo sleeves winding beneath fingerless gloves, multiple earrings glinting under city lights, and mismatched armor and pirate gear,

Still. Fox kept hidden. Because if Coruscant officially learned he survived? Everyone connected to him became vulnerable. His vod. Hondo. The crew. Fox refused to risk that.

The city hummed around him as he moved through lower traffic sectors toward the Senate district. His comm chirped once with the tone of Rex’s emergency channel.

Fox answered immediately. “Report.” Static.

Then Rex’s tense voice: “Skywalker’s heading to the Chancellor’s office alone.”

Fox went still. Something cold slid down his spine instantly.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But he looked… wrong.” Rex paused, before he said, quieter, “Fox, I think he’s scared.”

That decided it immediately. Because Fox knew fear. Knew what it looked like when someone cornered themselves emotionally until all exits disappeared. And worse—Fox knew slavery tactics. Isolation. Dependence. Emotional control disguised as affection.

The realization hit ugly and sudden. Palpatine. Fox had only met the Chancellor from a distance years ago. But after learning about the chips? After everything? He started reviewing old Republic records differently.

And the pattern he had heard of surrounding Skywalker was deeply familiar. Separate target from stable support systems. Encourage secrecy. Foster dependence. Position yourself as the only “safe” authority.

Fox stopped walking abruptly. “Oh.”A lot of things made sense all of a sudden. A nearby pedestrian startled violently as Fox pivoted and immediately broke into a sprint.

Anakin Skywalker looked furious, terrified, and like his back was currently pressed to a metaphorical corner. Fox recognized all three emotions instantly upon entering through the side access corridor.

The office itself glowed gold and crimson in the Coruscant night. Palpatine stood near the window calmly, mid-gesture. Anakin looked like a terrified boy trying not to drown.

“Skywalker.”

Both men turned sharply. Anakin blinked, squinted. Then: “…Fox?”

Palpatine’s eyes narrowed immediately. Because unlike Anakin, he recognized danger when he saw it.

The Chancellor smiled carefully. “Ah. The pirate.”

Fox smiled back without warmth. “Child slaver.”

Silence detonated through the room. Anakin’s head snapped toward Palpatine. Then toward Fox. “What?”

Fox didn’t look away from the Chancellor. “You know what isolation conditioning looks like, Skywalker?”

Anakin went still. Because yes, as a matter of fact, he did. Tatooine flooded back immediately: instances of owners isolating slaves from emotional support, rewarding obedience with affection, encouraging dependency, and making disobedience feel like abandonment.

Palpatine spoke smoothly. “Don’t fill the boy’s head with conspiracy theories.”

Fox laughed once. Short and sharp. “Oh, that’s rich coming from the man with behavioral override chips in an army.”

Anakin’s breathing stopped. “What.” Apparently, Anakin hadn’t gotten the full story. Oops.

Palpatine’s expression shifted minutely. But enough. Fox saw Skywalker recognize it instantly. That microscopic flicker of: caught. And suddenly—everything clicked into place for Anakin all at once.

All of the secrecy and isolation from the Council. The constant pressure and encouragement to hide things from Obi-Wan and Ahsoka. From everyone. The way Palpatine always positioned himself as: the only one who truly understood him.

It all hit Anakin like a speeder. “Oh.” The word came out horrified.

Palpatine stepped forward immediately. “Anakin—”

“Don’t!” Anakin cried, and lightning cracked instinctively across Palpatine’s fingertips.

Fox moved beside Anakin automatically, standing with him, as if to say, you’re not alone. That seemed to enrage Palpatine.

“You,” the Chancellor hissed toward Fox, suddenly placing him. “You were supposed to be dead.”

Fox tilted his head slightly. “Surprise,” he said flatly.

“CC-1010! Activate Order 66!”

Fox felt it happen. Or rather felt the absence. Somewhere deep in his skull there should have been obedience, pain, and compulsion. Instead there was a great load of nothing.

Fox grinned slowly, dangerously. “Oh, that must be really embarrassing for you.”

Palpatine’s expression finally cracked, true fury written across his face now.

And then everything exploded. The office shattered under Force lightning and blasterfire. Anakin fought like a wounded animal finally turning on its captor. Fox fought like a man who had spent five years becoming impossible to chain again.

Palpatine underestimated both of them catastrophically. He expected Anakin to hesitate. Expected Fox to obey. Instead he got a furious former slave realizing he’d been manipulated again and a pirate clone commander with a personal vendetta against authoritarian control. So the whole thing went rather poorly for him.

Lightning slammed across the room violently. Fox took the edge of it across his face and shoulder, pain white-hot and blinding, but kept moving anyway. Anakin screamed as lightning tore across his jawline and neck. He didn’t stop either.

Because they were angry now. Not the blind consuming anger the Jedi feared. Focused anger. Protective anger. The kind born from realizing someone had spent years exploiting your trauma for power.

Palpatine staggered backward. “You need me!”

“No,” Anakin said, voice shaking, but certain, “We really don’t.”

Fox aimed his blaster. Palpatine looked genuinely offended. “You would use a blaster against a Sith Lord?”

Fox unloaded the entire thing into his torso, and said, “Absolutely.” You see; while a normal blaster wouldn’t have done much against a Sith Lord, Fox’s blaster was very much not normal. In fact, it had several very illegal modifications, and a few more that could be swayed either way. The impact of it sent Palpatine right back into his—frankly ugly—desk, with a few holes in his torso.

Anakin laughed. Actually laughed. Wild and breathless and a little hysterical. Then drove his saber straight through Palpatine’s chest. And just like that, the Chancellor collapsed, dead.

The Chancellor’s office smelled like ozone, molten metal, and blood. Burned fabric drifted through the air in slow spirals. Outside the shattered windows, Coruscant glittered endlessly, uncaring. Med droids had arrived a few minutes ago.

Fox sat against the base of a ruined pillar breathing hard through the ache in his chest. Everything hurt. His shoulder. His ribs. The lightning burns crawling across the left side of his face and down his neck.

Anakin sat several feet away equally wrecked, one hand pressed over the fresh scar along his jaw while the med droids hovered anxiously around him. Neither of them had really processed what they’d just done. Or what almost happened. Or the fact that Palpatine was dead.

Fox’s hands still shook faintly from adrenaline or possibly from rage over the realization that the Chancellor had genuinely expected Order 66 to work on him. The demagolka really had thought Fox still belonged to him. The thought made something ugly twist in Fox’s chest.

Then boots thundered down the corridor. Fast and obviously military. Fox’s head snapped upward instantly. Anakin straightened too. The doors exploded open.

The Coruscant Guard’s red armor flooded the room in practiced formation, weapons raised, scanning for threats. And then they saw him. The entire formation stopped dead. Fox felt his stomach drop. Because suddenly this was all very real.

This was the Guard. His Guard. The men who’d searched for him. Mourned him. Held a service for him.

For one suspended second, nobody moved. Then Thorn’s helmet hit the floor. Literally hit the floor. He ripped it off so violently it bounced across the polished marble floor.

“Commander?”His voice cracked hard on the word. Fox forgot how to breathe. Stone stood frozen beside him, absolutely motionless, like if he moved too quickly the illusion would disappear. Thire just stared, wide-eyed, horrified and hopeful in the same breath.

Fox swallowed. “…Hey, vod.”

That was all it took. Stone crossed the room first, in three long strides that were too fast for decorum or military professionalism or literally any regulation Fox had ever enforced personally. He dropped to his knees in front of Fox so hard it probably hurt. Neither cared.

“You’re alive.” The words came out choked with emotion. Fox opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Stone looked wrecked. There were new lines around his eyes, and exhaustion was carved into his face. And Fox could see the grief still lingering there despite everything.

And suddenly Fox remembered what Bly had said that one time. “Your commanders nearly got arrested.”They had loved him enough to break rules for a ghost.

Stone grabbed both sides of Fox’s face abruptly, checking that this was indeed real.

“You’re alive,” he repeated harsher this time. “You kriffing di’kut, you’re alive.”

Fox laughed once weakly despite himself. “…That seems to be the consensus.”

Stone made a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and genuine fury. Then yanked Fox into a crushing embrace hard enough to make the injured pirate hiss.

“I should hit you.”

“Probably.”

“You vanished for five years.”

“I know.”

“We held a funeral.”

Fox’s eyes burned immediately. Because hearing it out loud hurt worse somehow. Stone pulled back just enough to glare at him, which would have been more effective if his eyes hadn’t also been wet.

“You know what Thorn did after your memorial?”

Fox blinked. “No?”

“He threatened a senator.”

“Objectively,” Thorn interrupted immediately while stalking toward them, “that senator deserved it.”

Fox looked up, and there he was. Thorn looked older too. Broader. Meaner around the edges in the way Fox had no doubt he would have been had he remained on Coruscant. But his expression right now was pure hurt.

“You shabuir,” Thorn said hoarsely.

Fox’s throat tightened. “Hi Thorn.”

“Don’t ‘hi Thorn’ me!” Thorn pointed aggressively. “We thought you were dead!”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do!” The words echoed sharply through the ruined office. Even the med droids paused. Anakin was too lost in his own head to notice much. Thorn’s voice cracked harder now. “We searched the entire sector.” Fox looked down. “Do you know how many reports Thire filed?”

“Three hundred and twelve,” Thire answered immediately.

Everyone turned toward him, to which Thire looked deeply offended. “I kept count.”

Fox stared. “…Vod.”

“You were missing.”Like that explained everything. To Thire, it probably did.

And Force—Thire looked devastated. Fox remembered Thire as painfully young. He had been quiet and earnest, always hovering nearby with reports or questions or caf. Now he stood taller. Sharper. But his eyes still did that same awful scrunched up thing whenever his emotions got too strong.

“You’re really alive,” Thire whispered, voice watery. Fox nodded once, and opened his arms. That did it. Thire crossed the room quickly and grabbed him too, careful around injuries instinctively, as if Fox might break if he held on too hard. Fox’s arms came around him automatically, and something inside his chest cracked open completely. Because he had missed them. So much. More than he’d ever admitted aloud, even to Hondo. He had missed his vod, his Guard, his family.

“I’m sorry,” Fox said quietly into the silence between them.

Stone exhaled shakily beside him. “You should be.”

Fox huffed a weak laugh. “I am.”

Then Thorn suddenly grabbed the front of Fox’s shirt. Fox looked up slowly. Thorn’s hands shook slightly. “You can’t do that again. You can’t disappear on us with no warning.”

That was the thing Fox still struggled with. He understood protecting people. Dying for people. But being wanted? Being loved enough that his absence wounded people? That still caught him off guard every time.

Fox looked between them slowly. Stone. Thire. Thorn. Then finally nodded once. “…Okay.”

Stone narrowed his eyes immediately. “Okay what.”

“Okay, I won’t disappear without warning again.”

Thorn squinted suspiciously. “That sounded carefully worded.”

“It was.”

“FOX.”

Anakin started laughing from across the room. All four Guard commanders turned toward him simultaneously. The Jedi Knight raised both hands immediately. “In my defense, I understand exactly how impossible he is now.”

Fox pointed tiredly. “He helped murder the Chancellor.”

Thorn blinked. “…What.”

Anakin shrugged weakly. “It was a weird night.”

Thire suddenly noticed the lightning scars fully. His face fell instantly. “Commander…”

Fox looked away reflexively. Stone reached up carefully toward the burns along Fox’s cheek.

“He hurt you.”

“Yeah.”

The room shifted immediately. Something dangerous settling into the Guard troopers all at once. Because not only had the Chancellor enslaved clones and manipulated the Republic, he had apparently tortured their commander personally. Thorn looked about a second away from shooting Palpatine’s corpse for the hell of it.

Fox noticed. And despite everything—despite the exhaustion and pain and emotional devastation—he smiled faintly.

Stone saw it immediately and groaned. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re doing the ‘I’m fine’ face.”

“I am fine.”

“You are most definitely not.”

Fox snorted helplessly. And just like that, the tension cracked. Thire laughed first, thin and watery still. Then Thorn. Then Stone. And suddenly they were all talking over each other angry and relieved and emotional and alive.

Fox sat in the middle of it listening quietly while the sounds washed over him. This was part of his home. These people. These relationships. This love stubborn enough to survive grief.

Except the problem with coming home, Fox soon realized, was that sometimes you discovered home wasn’t your home any longer. Not because you loved it less. But because you had changed while you were gone, and the place you had once occupied wasn’t the right fit anymore.

Coruscant was exactly the same. That was part of the problem. Because while his vod still loved him with terrifying intensity, and Fox loved them so much it physically hurt sometimes, something inside him kept turning towards the stars.

The city stretched endlessly below, lights sprawling as far as the eye could see without end. Fox leaned against the balcony railing with his curls tied loosely back, the wind tugging strands free around his face. His fresh tattoo along his ribs still itched slightly beneath his shirt.

Aliit ori'shya tal'din
Family is more than blood.

Behind him, Cody stepped quietly onto the balcony. “You’re leaving again.”

Fox stared out over the city a moment longer. “…Yeah.”

Cody moved beside him slowly. “You could stay.”

Fox’s jaw tightened slightly, because a part of him wanted to. Part of him wanted to be physically close to his brothers again. Wanted the Guard. Wanted Coruscant in all its loud terrible familiarity. But wanting wasn’t always enough.

Fox exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how to stay still anymore.”

Cody looked sideways at him.

And there it was. The truth of it. Five years among pirates and smugglers and outer rim planets had changed Fox fundamentally. While he had grown up with duty, the stars had taught him freedom. On Coruscant, everything reminded Fox of the man he used to be. But out there, among the stars, he had become someone else.

“I love this place,” Fox admitted quietly. “But I can’t live here.”

Cody’s expression softened immediately. He understood.

“You outgrew it.”

Fox huffed softly. “That sounds dramatic.”

“You are dramatic.”

“I learned from Hondo.”

“If you say so.”

They stood together quietly after that, twin silhouettes against the city lights. They were different now, and still exactly the same.

Finally Cody nudged Fox lightly with his shoulder. “You staying in touch this time?”

Fox immediately looked offended. “Yes.”

“You disappeared for three years. I have to ask.”

“That was one time.”

“One very long time.”

Fox snorted quietly. Then after a pause:
“…I’m sorry about that again.”

Cody looked at him for a long moment, then bumped their shoulders together again. “I know.”

On the day, Fox was getting picked up by Hondo, the entire Guard somehow showed up, even though he’d already said his goodbyes. Fox still didn’t know who told them. Probably Cody. The docking bay buzzed with noise and red armor and emotional repression so intense it became visible.

“You packed snacks?”Fox stared at Thire, “You’re leaving for the outer rim again,”he defended himself. “You forget to eat when stressed.”

Stone and Thorn nodded immediately. “He’s right.”

Fox looked horrified. “I am not five.”

The ship ramp lowered behind him with a hydraulic hiss. Warm familiar music drifted faintly from inside the cruiser, and he could hear the crew yelling over card games. Home.

Hondo appeared at the top of the ramp wearing enough of Fox’s jewelry to blind anyone.

“My Fox!” he announced dramatically. “Are you done emotionally devastating your military family?”

Fox rolled his eyes automatically. “You’re late.”

“That’s why I need you!”

“I am coming, cyar’ika, give me a minute.”

“Tick tock Foxie!”

Thorn squinted upward. “I still don’t trust him.”

Hondo gasped theatrically. “I saved your commander repeatedly!”

“You kidnapped him first!”

“Technicalities!”

Fox smiled before he could stop himself. He turned back toward his vod slowly. The Guard. His brothers. His family.

“I’ll comm,” he promised.

Thorn pointed threateningly. “You better.”

“Or what?”

“We’ll hunt you down again.”

Hondo looked delighted. “Oh, I would enjoy that immensely.”

Then unexpectedly, well for Fox, Thire hugged him. Fox froze only briefly before hugging back just as hard.

“Stay safe, vod,” Thire whispered.

Fox closed his eyes briefly. “I will.”

Stone followed next. Then Thorn, who pretended the crushing embrace was not emotional at all despite visibly shaking.

Finally Cody stepped forward last. They looked at each other silently for a moment. Twins. Vode. Survivors.

Then Cody reached up and flicked one of the loose braids hanging beside Fox’s face.

“You be happy,” Cody said quietly.

Fox blinked, and glanced back toward the waiting ship. Toward music and laughter and freedom and a pirate captain who had accidentally become the center of his strange life. Then back toward Coruscant. Toward duty and history and the vode who would always hold pieces of his heart.

“…I think I already am,” Fox admitted softly.

Cody smiled then. “Good.”

Fox boarded the ship without looking back. Not because he didn’t care. Because he finally trusted that they would still be there when he returned.

At the top of the ramp, Hondo slung an arm dramatically around his shoulders. “You know,” the pirate mused as the engines began humming beneath them, “most people have significantly less emotional complexity.”

Fox snorted. “Yeah right.”

Below them, Coruscant glittered endlessly against the dark. Fox watched it shrink through the viewport as the ship climbed toward open stars. And instead of grief, he felt something lighter. For the first time in his life, he could go forward without looking back. For the first time, the direction ahead belonged entirely to him.